One Day
by Dinadette
Summary: Poor Rosie Selfridge did not marry well, and even that got taken from her in the end. Various disturbing themes though the rating should not be higher than this.


Why did she even get married already?

The exoticism of her suitor... An emotional lack, her mother passed ever so suddenly... And her father, not even at his shop -oh no, God only knew where he was when she had needed him the most. So she had clung to her Russian prince, dreaming herself lofty and untouchable, as if no one could hurt her anymore. Except he did. He had sworn to cherish her, to protect her. So did her father, on her mother's death bed. And here they were, both, fighting and butting heads, as if she didn't matter, as if she didn't exist. And maybe she didn't, a woman only fully allowed to be through a father or a husband - when both of hers had deserted her in times of need.  
Her father had not hesitated before ruining the family's meager understanding with the de Bolotoffs. As for her husband, running from her before even the honeymoon, what could be said about him?

Everything came before she did. Money, planes, money, parties, his mother. Money. Money. Money. That much was clear, from the wedding speech on. And, __him__. She could decide to blame the man who had corrupted him further, a man who was noble in name only, who had convinced him to get rid of her, that she would understand. But, though her husband was young, he was no child, and he had made his choice. Her father, as usual, was otherwise occupied. Her sisters, inexperienced. Her grandmother didn't deserve to go through this again, still reeling from the misconduct of her own husband and son. Her brother had his own life, lofty and haughty, enjoying their new artistocratic connections only too much, enjoying de Bolotoff seemingly as much as she had.

Tears were flowing freely, not caring any more about who could see her as she got off the luxurious car. She had sworn to never be her mother, and indeed she was not. She was in a much worse predicament. He had attempted to take her hand, in the car, and she had gasped in disgust and contempt, biting her lip, refusing to meet his eyes. He didn't object, not that time, despite all his speeches about a husband's rights.  
Because no husband was he that night, she thought, shaking her head to chase away the images that troubled her so, that tainted their union, that unmaned him forever in her mind. She had been searching him, assuming a mistress, a sneaking spree through his home office - as if he was a working man! - and she had known where to find him, which address to give the chauffeur as she was blushing crimson: he was not even hiding!

Innocent Rosie had entered the manor, leaving it sinful and ashamed, as in the dining room... no, he was not even hiding. And there was no mistress around, or maybe he was the closest thing to a mistress kept by an older, richer decadent aristocrat. This was insane and this made sense, running to __him__ instead, and all that money. The older man was not surprised, or he did not show it - again, it seemed he could only feel anger, hatred, schadenfreude and some cold, calculated lust. Her husband was looking at her with something that appeared to be fright in his eyes, his cheeks reddened from alcohol and his lips from kisses and God knew what else. __He__ stared at her lazily , up and down, and did not quite bother to remove his hand from the boyish Russian, to even try to make it look like anything less debauched. Her heart forever broken, she had stooped to his level.

Somehow he had sent them on their way in the end. Oddly her husband was crying without a noise, Russian pride all but forgotten, while she was keeping her head high under his gaze. "What would your dear father think, Lady de Bolotoff... such a shame", he smirked, obviously pleased with both of them. He looked impeccable, as if nothing that mattered had happened, and maybe it was the case. A shame it was alright, a fallen woman forever, a living victory to the enemy, her make up smudged and lipstick where there shouldn't be any. She should have brought a gun, she pondered, she would have had a few occasions... She could have ended it for everyone involved. She should have. God, how she should have. Hatred was making her dizzier than the white powder that dulled her mercifully to the world. She would be bringing it with her in a final gift. For the first time she found it in herself to meet his steel-hard eyes. Oh, she could see why Lady Mae had run from that one, after wanting him desperately... Her voice as extinguished as she was, she whispered to him like a lover. "One day... I will kill you, Loxley".


End file.
